Driving away from the Hibiscus Hotel, Bert Paulson's scsirred face was dark and scowling as he slumped behind the wheel, scarcely noticing where he was going.
Where to now? What the hell had happened to Nellie? Everything was so mixed up, his mind was in a whirl as he considered all the possibilities.
That story the red-headed private detective had told him? How much was fact and how much was lies?
That elevator boy at the Hibiscus I Could he identify him? Place him upstairs on the third floor about the time a disappearing body was being reported as having been seen in 316?
Fear and fierce impatience surged through Paulson's body. The weight of the. 45 against his left groin felt good. He wanted to take hold of things with his two hands and tear them apart. Somewhere in this darkened city, Nellie was hiding out from him. Hiding from him in an agony of fear that he might trace her down.
Well, she had every right and reason to be hiding out from him. If he did manage to get his hands on her His big hands tightened on the steering wheel and the battle scar from Korea stood out whitely on his cheek as anger raged inside him.
It was his responsibility. The whole sorry affair was his doing. If he'd only realized sooner what Nellie was getting herself into The neon lights of a restaurant and bar reminded him that he had not eaten since that afternoon. He pulled into the curb sharply and got out. With a couple of drinks and some food, he might be able to think things out a little more clearly. Driving aimlessly around the streets like this was no good. That damned redhead had probably already reported to the police that he'd walked out on him flourishing a gun and swearing to find Nellie. They'd have a description of him He went into a long, low room with a curved bar directly beyond the entrance, tables and booths on his right. It was fairly well crowded and not too well lighted. A haze of smoke added to the dimness.
Half a dozen men were seated on leather stools at the bar, and three-quarters of the tables were occupied by couples and groups of three or four, laughing over drinks or eating late dinners.
Paulson strode down the line of booths and found an empty one near the end. He slid into it so the scar on his face was toward the wall, and he was careful to keep the other side toward the waitress when she arrived almost immediately and asked in a somewhat disapproving tone, "Are you alone, sir?"
"Yes." His voice was surly, demanding to know what of it.
She said brightly, "Then perhaps you wouldn't mind moving to one of the smaller tables. We like to keep the booths free for larger parties."
He wanted to shout at her that he'd be damned if he'd move out to one of the tables where he could be observed by everyone. That he was a paying customer and just as good as anyone else in the joint, and he'd damned well occupy a booth if he wanted to.
But fear and worry about Nellie were slowly teaching him caution, and he restrained himself to say, "As a matter of fact, another couple are meeting me for dinner a little later. I'll have a couple of drinks while I wait."
"Yes, sir. Of course in that case- What would you like to drink?"
"Canadian rye and water. A double with water on the side." He sat back and lit a cigarette as she went away. By God, he needed a drink. A couple of fast doubles. That was the ticket. Then he'd settle down to some hard thinking. Right now he felt almost giddy. There was a nightmarish quality about the events of the evening that gave him a gnawing sense of sickness in his belly. He was beginning to think he hadn't played it very smart with Michael Shayne. Either should have played along with the guy-gained his confidence and got his co-operation in looking for Nellie-or else he should at least have slugged the redhead before going out as he did.
The waitress came with a double shot-glass full to the brim with whisky, and a glass of ice water. Paulson lifted the smaller glass avidly and drank from it, held his breath while he seized the water and took a big swallow. His throat burned a trifle and warmth crept into his stomach. The whisky was raw and strong. He took another sip and then a larger drink of water, poured the rest of the liquor into the larger glass and sloshed it around with the water. It was too weak to do much good when he tasted it, and he turned to watch through the opening into the booth for his waitress. When he caught her eye he held up two fingers, nodding toward the glass in his hand.
She came with another double shot, and he dribbled all of it into the water glass.
Now the drink was just right. Wonderful. Magnificent. It didn't bum his throat, but it had authority. It was beginning to dissolve the gnawing knot in his belly.
He knew, now, that it had been a bad mistake not to have slugged Shayne. He could have done it easy enough, and goddamn it, he would have enjoyed slugging the big bastard. Tough guy, huh? Well, none of them were so very tough after they got slugged by Bert Paulson.
The way he had sat around and kept Paulson talking about Nellie when all the time he had the girl hidden in his kitcheni Damn his soul. So now Nellie was gone and only God knew where she was. Or what she was.
He drank more of the blended whisky and water, and the knot went away altogether. Suddenly his glass was empty except for two half-melted ice cubes. He frowned and caught the waitress's attention, and told her somewhat thickly, "Another dose of the same. Miss. Guess my friends are held up."
She said something about that was too bad, and went away to bring him another double Canadian rye with more water on the side.
He kept hold of his first glass when she returned, poured the whisky on top of the ice and then carefully measured water in to exactly the proper combination. Not too strong to go down easily, not so weak that you couldn't feel it hit bottom.
Having contrived exactly the right strength, he sipped the mixture happily. Let's see now. He was going to do some straight thinking. That was it. Those two doubles had fixed him up just fine. The thing was, now, to keep up just the right edge. Because now his mmd was fine and clear. He was in just the right mood to out-think Mike Shayne and all the cops in Miami. It was like being back in Korea. Out-thinking the enemy. He'd always been good at that. He was alive, wasn't he? And a lot of the damned yellow Communists were dead. Why? Just because he'd out-thought and out-fought 'em, by God! So he could do it again. Just him against all of them. What the hell did the odds matter? Hadn't he been up against worse odds in Korea?
As the level of liquid receded in the glass, it was like he had been a one-man army in Korea. Like he had defeated the enemy single-handed. There had been other American soldiers around, of course, but he had really done the worst of the job. He was Bert Paulson, wasn't he?
Well, wasn't he? he demanded fiercely of himself. Things were beginning to get a little mixed up in his mind again. He wasn't in the Hibiscus Hotel with his throat cut, was he? Then who in hell said he was? Somebody had.
Nellie 1 That was it. Or else the redhead was lying. That was a lot more likely. Helll Why hadn't he caught on that was it right away? Damned foolishness to think Nellie had seen him there with his throat cut. Nellie knew better than that. She knew her own brother, didn't she?
Well, didn't she?
He finished his third drink and gravely debated having another. Reluctantly, he decided against it. He was feeling fine, now. Wonderful. Just had a little edge on. Just right for the things he had to do.
And he didn't want any food. That was always a mistake-eating after drinking. Food just absorbed the liquor in your belly and sobered you up.
No more drinks. No food. This was just right.
He got out his wallet and fumbled in it. The waitress saw him and came to his booth with a slip of paper on a small, round tray. She asked brightly, "Stood you up, I guess?"
He blinked at her, wondering what she meant. Then he remembered about the couple he'd invented who had been supposed to meet him for dinner. He said thickly, "Guess so. Haven't time to wait any longer."